Valley of the Gun (9781101607480)

by Cotton, Ralph W.

  “No,” Sam said. “I’ll be riding alone because that’s how I ride.” He walked away as the sheriff stared after him.

  “I’m a lawman same as you, Ranger,” DeShay pointed out.

  “I never said otherwise,” Sam replied without looking back at the sheriff. This was neither the time nor the place to argue the matter, he told himself.

  “All right, then,” DeShay called out. “I’ll ride with the posse from Goble when they get here. I’ve no doubt they’ll welcome my help.”

  “Do what suits you,” Sam called back. “Tell them to watch for me. I’ll be on the trail in front of them.”

  Chapter 3

  It was dark by the time the Ranger finished attending to the black-point dun and led the big copper-colored horse out of the livery barn, his riding duster draped over the saddle. As he stopped and put on the duster, the dun chuffed and blew and stamped a hoof as if in protest of the ensuing ride. Cradling the horse’s head in the crook of his arm, Sam patted its jaw with a gloved hand.

  “I know it’s been a long day, fellow,” he said quietly. “But you’re fed and rubbed and rested.” He paused with a thin, wry smile. “I wish I could say the same for myself,” he added, realizing that he hadn’t been off his feet since he’d walked into Whiskey Bend.

  The big dun sawed his head a little as if trying not to give in too easily. But he settled at the Ranger’s touch, liking the feel of his hand, the soothing tone of his voice.

  “Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for you right now,” Sam said with a firm final pat.

  He stepped into his stirrup and swung himself up into his saddle. Drawing his Winchester from its boot, he checked it out of habit and held it with its butt propped up from his thigh. Beneath him the dun moved forward and sidelong, high-stepping, ready to go now that his grousing had somehow been reckoned and assuaged.

  “That’s all you wanted, a little appreciation?” Sam said as if in surprise. He gathered his reins, collected the horse and with a tap of his knees set the animal into an easy gallop, knowing it would take the better part of the night to shorten the gap between himself and Dad Orwick’s men.

  Once out of Whiskey Bend, Sam let the dun set its own pace, riding across a stretch of sandy flatlands leading to the black hill line standing in the grainy purple distance. By the time the dun had started up into the rising hills, a waxing three-quarter moon lit the night, outlining the black ribbon of trail where it snaked up the hillside’s rugged barren face.

  The dun slowed its own pace at points where the trail fell blackened behind stands of boulders and shadowy stretches of pine and brush. But then, as if knowing what the Ranger expected of it, the horse kicked up its pace as the trail cleared and the moonlight returned.

  So far so good, Sam told himself, grateful to have the moon and starlight on his side.

  He rode on.

  Nearing dawn, at a fork in the trail, the Ranger stopped the horse and stepped down. In the grainy light he lowered himself on one knee and checked the hoofprints in the trail dust, seeing the four riders had taken a trail leading upward and in the direction of Silvery Hills, or Colinas Plateadas as the Mexicans had called the mining town since as far back as the days of Spanish rule.

  Another good break, he reminded himself. The town lay at the top end of the narrow trail. Sam knew he was looking at the only way in and the only way out of Silvery Hills, unless Orwick’s gunmen wanted to risk their and their horses’ lives on one of the countless game paths that crisscrossed the steep, treacherous landscape. He had no reason to think they would do that. But he did have reason to believe their only possible motive for riding up to Silvery Hills would be to rob the mine payroll.

  Yep, he decided, reminding himself it was nearing the first of the month—payday for the hard-rock silver miners. Robbing the mine payroll with a posse on their trail was exactly the sort of brazen thing a bunch like Orwick’s men would do, he thought. Besides, if he was wrong, they would still have to come down this same trail. Either way, as he knew he couldn’t get to the Silvery Hills mines quick enough to stop anything, the best thing for him to do would be to stake out a position somewhere high along the trail and lie in wait. He was certain he wouldn’t get Dad Orwick himself, but he would settle for four of Orwick’s gunmen.

  “And I know just the spot,” he murmured to himself, gazing into the grainy darkness ahead. Beside him the dun piqued its ears and raised its nuzzle, as if looking out with him. The Ranger stood and patted the horse’s jaw. Then he stepped back up into his saddle and put the animal forward at the same easy gallop.

  When he reined the dun down to a halt again, a sliver of daylight had seeped up and wreathed the eastern horizon. He stepped down from the horse, but this time he didn’t bother stooping to look at the hoofprints. He could see them well enough to know that nothing had changed.

  “Let’s find you a good spot. It’ll be daylight soon enough,” he said quietly to the dun, guiding the horse off the trail onto a steep, winding game path that led deep into the rocky hillside.

  —

  An hour later, after eating a breakfast of dried elk sliced from a shank he had packed inside his saddlebags, Sam washed his meal down with tepid water from his canteen and waited. Lying behind the cover of rock he’d strategically chosen overlooking the trail from Silvery Hills, he pressed his ear to the back of his gloved hand on the ground at the first sound of distant rifle fire.

  Here we go. . . .

  He soon felt the slight tremor of distant hoofbeats moving down the trail toward him. He had no doubt the sound belonged to Orwick’s men. Who else would be leaving the town in such a hurry, guns blazing, this time of morning?

  He looked up at the rocky hillside to make a quick check on the dun where he’d picketed it, thirty yards away, tucked partially out of sight from his angle, yet impossible to see from the trail below. Under Sam’s gaze, the dun raised its muzzle and stared back at him, a sprig of thin pale greenery hanging from its jaws.

  Safe and sound. Good. . . .

  As soon as he was finished with Dad Orwick and his miscreants, he’d take the dun back to the badlands Ranger outpost and give him a good rest. He’d pick up his Appaloosa stallion, Black Pot, at the outpost and ride on to wherever his next assignment led him.

  But first things first, he reminded himself, feeling the tremor of hoofbeats beneath him growing closer—starting to hear them now, the thundering roar of them resounding down the rock-lined trail. He rose in a crouch, dusted his chest with a gloved hand and picked up his Winchester rifle from against the rock where he’d stood it.

  Had he continued to look toward the dun a moment longer, he might have seen the lone figure move forward silently through the rocky terrain and raise a hand to the horse’s muzzle to keep it settled. But the horse wasn’t having it. The edgy animal jerked its muzzle away from the offered hand, gave a warning chuff and stamped a hoof on the rocky ground. The lone figure dropped instantly out of sight even as the Ranger heard the dun and looked in its direction, this time swinging his rifle around with him.

  But just as soon as Sam turned, he realized he was too late. He saw the white flash of a rifle shot as he felt the bullet punch through his duster and slice across his right shoulder. The bullet threw him off balance for only a second, but in that second he felt his boot slide backward in the loose dirt and slip off the rocky ledge where he’d taken position.

  As a second shot whistled past him, he felt himself falling, tumbling over rock. His Winchester flew from his hand as he grasped for something, anything to stop his downward plunge. But he found nothing. Instead, he landed hard, ten feet down the steep hillside on another ledge in a shower of dust and loose dirt. As soon as he hit the ledge, he tumbled again, this time jolting to a halt against a sunken boulder, the side of his head taking the impact.

  He felt the likeness of a cannon explosion some
where inside his skull, and in spite of all his efforts to fend off an encroaching darkness, he sensed it surround him, knowing there was nothing he could do but surrender to it. A ringing silence overcame him; he felt his eyes close as he fell slack and sank farther and farther down into that swirling, eerie darkness.

  When he batted his eyes open a moment later—how much later he had no idea—the world revealed itself to him through a gray, watery veil. He saw a shadowy figure standing over him, and watched the tip of a rifle barrel push aside his duster lapel to better see the badge on his chest.

  Addled and half-conscious, Sam nevertheless realized that wearing a badge in this wild, lawless stretch of badlands could go one of two ways: it could save his life or it could cost him his life.

  The Colt . . . , he thought, trying in vain to focus on the figure standing over him. But as his weak hand managed to slowly crawl to the holstered gun on his hip and drag it out, he felt a boot clamp down on his wrist. At least he’d tried, he thought, feeling himself drift away again into an eerie darkness as he heard the rifle hammer cock above him.

  You don’t go down this easy, he heard his inner voice say. Yet he turned loose of the thought as he felt the darkness close in again. This time something told him to relax, to give in to it, that everything was as it should be. There was peace here. This was how a lawman died. This was what he’d known was coming all along. He pictured himself growing smaller in the world around him, leaving . . . leaving.

  This wasn’t so bad, he told himself, nothing at all as he imagined dying would be. . . .

  Seeing the Ranger’s eyes close, the lone figure standing over him rolled Sam’s head back and forth with the toe of a scuffed boot, making sure he was unconscious.

  “Arizona Ranger . . . ,” a quiet voice said. The figure studied the badge and poked it with the tip of the still-smoking rifle barrel. With a sigh the figure added, “What will I do with you until Dad Orwick gets here?”

  The tall figure looked out along the trail coming down from Silvery Hills, realizing that after hearing the rifle fire, whoever was riding away from the mines wouldn’t come down this trail at all. They would most likely break away from one another and take their chances, coaxing their horses off the narrow path and down on the steep, treacherous hillsides.

  “So much for my element of surprise,” the voice said. The figure stooped, picked up Sam’s Colt and held it in a gloved hand. “You’ve messed up everything for me, Ranger.”

  Then the figure reached up, took off a wide-brimmed plainsman-style hat and shook out a long gathered reel of hair. The hair fell in a gentle sway, reaching below shoulder level.

  A hand slipped out of its glove and adjusted the long, glistening hair back from a strong yet delicate woman’s face. Pale blue eyes flashed catlike in the direction of the hoofbeats that had already fallen silent.

  “Congratulations, Ranger,” the voice said softly, wryly, gazing down at Sam. “You just managed to save Dad Orwick’s life.”

  —

  On the trail, Deacon Jamison and long rider Burt Tally had jerked their horses to a halt in unison, both outlaw and churchman hearing the gunshot on the trail below them. Four more riders came to a quick halt behind them and sat staring from their saddles, their rifles already in hand.

  A boyish churchman who’d been given the name Young Ezekiel by Dad Orwick himself sidled his horse up closer to Deacon Jamison. He led a string of ten stolen mine horses on a long rope behind him.

  “What do you make of it, Deacon?” he asked under his breath.

  The deacon, a large man whose broad shoulders strained against the seams of his black wool coat, only shook his head slowly as he stared down the trail.

  “Let us pray it’s not Dad returning onto our trail and running into the posse from Goble,” he said. He stroked his long black beard with his free hand.

  Burt Tally smiled and looked at Vincent Callahan, another gunman recently riding with Dad Orwick’s company.

  “Whilst you’re praying, tell the old bearded man upstairs I said mucho gracias that at least we’re the ones carrying the mine payroll,” Tally said, reaching a hand back and patting the bulging canvas bag tied down behind his saddle.

  “Don’t speak mockingly of the Lord in my presence,” Deacon Jamison said in a sharp tone, his thick hand wrapped around the stock of the rifle on his lap. “I won’t stand for your blasphemy.”

  “Easy, Deacon. Don’t get your drawers in a knot,” said Tally, his thumb quickly cocking the rifle on his lap even though Jamison had only given his warning. “You’re already behind in the game.” He raised his rifle an inch and pointed it toward the burly churchman, letting him see he had the drop on him. “Learn to cock up first, then make your demands. It’ll keep you from meeting Jesus before you’ve a mind to.”

  But the deacon only stared angrily, not backing down any more than he had to.

  “I’ll take your advice and be better prepared next time,” he said. “Now, be warned that I will hear no more of you speaking offensively toward the Lord.” He raised his hand from his uncocked rifle and pointed a thick finger for emphasis.

  The churchman, Young Ezekiel, drew his horse even closer beside Jamison. The string of horses bunched up behind him.

  “Nor will I,” he said solemnly.

  Tally looked the two up and down and chuffed with contempt.

  “Riddle me this, gentle souls,” he said. “How can I be guilty of offending someone or something that I don’t have the slightest belief in?”

  “Mark my words, Tally, you will come to believe,” Jamison said gruffly, “lest you forfeit your soul to everlasting hell.”

  “I might do just that,” said Tally. “But I bet I’ll have more friends than you where you’re headed—”

  “Why, you filthy, sinful heathen!” Jamison shouted.

  “Cut it off, both of yas,” said a stoic gunman named Frank Bannis, who lunged his horse forward and stopped between the two as he gazed in the direction of the rifle fire. “I’m sick of you two talking all that religious malarkey.”

  “Malarkey? How dare—!” Jamison began, but his words were cut short as Bannis’ Colt streaked up from his holster, cocked and jammed into the churchman’s thick chest.

  “One more word,” Bannis hissed, “I’ll make no threats—I’ll kill you quick.”

  The churchman shut up; so did Burt Tally. Tension fell over the riders.

  After a second, Bannis lowered his Colt but held it in hand, the barrel slightly tipped toward Deacon Jamison.

  “Young Ezekiel,” he said in a cool, even tone, “unstring them horses and get them going.”

  The men sat and watched as the young churchman loosened the rope down the line and shooed all the horses away.

  “What’re we going to do, Frank?” an older gunman named Morton Kerr asked quietly as the horses looped along the trail and veered off and down into the rocky hillside.

  Bannis reached a hand out toward Burt Tally for the canvas bag behind his saddle.

  “Give me the money, Burt,” he said. “We’re breaking off here and going down through the rocks. We’re not going to risk running into that posse in close quarters.”

  “What about the water hole?” Burt asked. “These horses will need watering.”

  “Stay away from the water hole.” He looked at the two churchmen and said, “Deacon, one of you zealots take a spot high up and watch over that water hole.” He gave a thin, sarcastic smile and added, “Kill any godless heathen you see come near it. You do enjoy killing godless heathens, don’t you?”

  The older churchman only glared at him.

  “Now give me that money, Burt, like I told you to,” said Bannis.

  Tally reached back, untied the money bag and brought it around toward Bannis. As he did so, he shot the riders a look.

 
Cautiously he said, “Frank, why is it you’re going to carry the money? Was I doing it wrong?” He gave a weak grin.

  “I’m not carrying it,” Frank said. “We’re divvying it up. Everybody’s taking part of it down these hillsides. That way if we lose a man or two, we’ve still got most of our booty.” He looked around at the group. “Anybody object?”

  “No,” said Kerr, “it’s the only thing that makes sense. I’ve seen more than a couple good men go down on these rocks and never rise back up.”

  “What about those two heathens Hornady and Hirsh?” Deacon Jamison asked.

  “What about them?” Bannis said, already opening the canvas bag on his lap.

  “What will they think when they come up this mining trail and don’t find us riding down it?” Jamison asked.

  What will they think? Bannis stared at him, a stack of money in his hand.

  “I don’t read minds, Deacon,” he said. “Like as not that’s what the rifle fire was about. Maybe the posse caught up to one of them—maybe both—and shot them down.”

  Deacon thought about it; he passed Young Ezekiel a glance. Then he turned back to Frank Bannis.

  “Dad isn’t going to like it, us splitting up his money this way.” Even as he spoke, Deacon Jamison caught the bundle of cash Frank pitched to him.

  “You be sure and tell him all about it, Deacon,” Bannis said. “Hell, tell him I forced you to do it, if you’re afraid to tell him the truth.”

  “Dad knows that I fear nothing but the hand of God,” Jamison returned quickly. He hefted the cash in his big hand, considering it. Maybe this was the best thing to do under the circumstances. This, rather than let all of the money out of his sight. “And you’re right. I will be telling him this was all your idea—that Young Ezekiel and I had little choice but to go along with it.”

  “You do that, Deacon,” Bannis said, pitching a similar bundle of cash to Haywood Cummins. “Now both of yas get scooting down this hillside. Get above that water hole. We meet back up at the Munny Caves.”